


Deep in Dark Least Ourselves Remembering:

by confessingly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, MWPP Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confessingly/pseuds/confessingly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And you should always expect me to turn on you. It’s in my blood. Can’t help it."</p>
<p>The consequences of accusing the wrong person of being a spy never really go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep in Dark Least Ourselves Remembering:

Trouble is every Potter’s middle name, Remus sighs, but it might as well be Harry’s first one, too.   
  
Trouble Trouble Potter, Sirius mutters, running his fingers over the rim of his mug of firewhiskey. Double Trouble Potter, that’s what everyone would say.  
  
Remus shrugs, I think they already do. He gazes past Sirius, into the barren fireplace, months-old ash rubbed across the cold hearth, and continues: how long are you going to be here?  
  
I don’t know, he replies, frowning. Until it’s safe for me to be out and about, I guess. Or until Dumbledore says otherwise. Are you worried about the full moon?  
  
No, says Remus, I’m just wondering when you’re leaving. He gets out his threadbare armchair and leaves the room, his glass of mead trembling from his footsteps. Sirius can hear him going up the stairs, hear the running water, the click of a door, the silence.  
  
Well, everyone eventually leaves, he mumbles. Then: Fuck you, too.  
  
*  
  
Hey, Remus, can I tell you something?  
  
Yeah, have at it, Padfoot. I’m only studying for my Arithmancy exam.  
  
That’s really interesting. So I don’t like Evans.  
  
Lily Evans?  
  
Yeah. I just don’t think she and James are good for each other.  
  
You don’t think anyone would be good with James. Except you. Sure you don’t fancy him?  
  
Ha. Ha. Very. Funny. No, but Peter does. Peter’s really torn up inside. He doesn’t like how much time Evans makes James spend with her.  
  
We’ll set Peter and James up for our next Hogsmeade weekend. Peter can take him to Madam Puddifoot’s, and they’ll snog in the basement of Honeydukes. But Padfoot, don’t be mean to Lils. I quite like her.  
  
Ugh. I didn’t expect you to turn on me like this.  
  
Oh, you’ll come around to her in time. If you hadn’t made fun of her so much in our first year, you’d be best friends, too.  
  
Doubtful.

And you should always expect me to turn on you. It’s in my blood. Can’t help it.  
  
Yeah, guess it’s in mine, too. Hey, you’re not busy, are you? Do you want to come to the pitch with me?  
  
*  
  
Azkaban is still with him, will still be with him, Sirius knows, clinging to him like his own shadow. It’s underneath his fingernails and in his dreams, twelve years of fighting insanity streaked across his face like so much dirt. He’d never go back, but two weeks of coldness from Remus and the screams of that island seem almost inviting.  
  
Remus works, somewhere in Epping, an archival assistant for some Muggle researcher who doesn’t know or care why the quiet, greying young man he employs has to go home to his family once a month. It’s barely enough for him, and it’s only Sirius’s adeptness at Replenishing Charms that save their meager pantry.  
  
This isn’t what Sirius thought the summer would be like: Remus and Sirius, Sirius and Remus. Reunited again, wrestling and smoking and listening to the radio, unbreaking all that came before. And maybe, perhaps, picking up what the first war had forced them to drop.  
  
But Remus won’t say anything, and the silence isn’t an invitation to do anything more than mope about the house and avoid his only living friend.  
  
When Dumbledore comes and asks for Grimmauld Place, Sirius gives it up gladly—as he always had for Dumbledore, as he had handed over his life at seventeen to a cause he only barely understood. He’d always hated Number Twelve, and now it wouldn’t be his.  
  
Are you certain that’s all right, Dumbledore asks, because someone would have to stay there at all times, and I’d like it to be you.  
  
He protests, he says, I ran away; I tried to escape; I never wanted to go back. Remus sits silently in his armchair, and Sirius wants to scream at him, wants to tear his hair out, Remus knows what he’s feeling, surely knows the way his heart is shrinking inwards at the thought of the house elf heads on the walls and the burn-riddled tapestries, but Remus says nothing.  
  
It’s for the greater good, says Dumbledore, and then he turns away sharply. I’d like to open it up in two days, please. I’ll cast the Fidelius myself. He’s gone before Sirius can say anything else.  
  
What the hell was that, Moony, what the hell was that? He rounds on Remus in a rage, lead in his stomach at the prospect of his return home. You could have said something—anything—  
  
Dumbledore’s mind was made up, Remus replies coolly. Besides, either you’re indoors all day in my house or you’re indoors all day in your own. What’s the difference?  
  
The difference is you, says Sirius, and even as he says it he’s afraid that’s not true, that whatever he’d had with Remus broke the day he stood in the ruins of the Potters’ cottage, that the only thing left between them is silence and mistrust.  
  
*  
  
James, you’re going to be a fucking horrible dad.  
  
Don’t swear so much, Sirius, the baby might hear. And why not, I ask? I think I’d be terrific.  
  
Fetuses don’t have ears. You’re irresponsible. Just last week we smoked gil—smoked some salmon. That’s what we did, Lily. So is Remus coming around today?  
  
He should be here soon. Haven’t you two spoken?  
  
Not for a couple weeks. Why are you looking at me like that?  
  
No, I just assumed you two talked all the time. Given…past events.  
  
Shit. Does everyone know?  
  
No. Just me. And Peter, I guess. I didn’t think you wanted anyone else to find out.  
  
Horrible fucking friends, you two.  
  
So it’s not a…a thing?  
  
No, it bloody fucking well isn’t a thing, James. His parents died and he was upset. That was it. You’re the main man in my life. Always have been.  
  
Don’t fuck it up, you idiot. Lupin’ll go all sad like he does, and disappear into some werewolf den and we’ll never hear from him again. Then who would save our sorry arses from the Death Eaters?  
  
Er…we would save ourselves. As we usually do.  
  
Not the point.  
  
Then enlighten me. Am I supposed to be in love with him?  
  
No. Just. We have to always be friends.  
  
James. Don’t be stupid. Of course we’ll always be friends.  
  
*  
  
He finds Remus in the kitchen the next evening, stirring flavorless, boiled vegetables together, and the moment he enters the room, Remus turns away and slams a bowl on the counter.  
  
Dinner, he says, voice hoarse.  
  
I’m not a dog, Sirius snaps. You can speak to me in full sentences.  
  
Remus turns back to face him, and with a level gaze, intones blandly: I wish you’d just leave already. He pauses. Sorry, did you want something longer?  
  
Why can’t we go back? Sirius thinks. He says, What the fuck have I done to you?  
  
But he can’t provoke Remus; he never could, not the way he could get James to burst, get Peter to snap. All Moony replies with is a shrug and—  
  
You thought I was the spy.  
  
Before Sirius can think it through properly, he’s sputtering, thoughts spinning out into the space between them. But I realized my mistake, but Peter played us against each other, but you thought it was me, but you said you forgave me, but, and Remus only says, But I loved you.  
  
Love?  
  
Loved.  
  
Without warning, Sirius’s voice goes up of its own accord, until he’s yelling at Remus, words like fingers scrabbling at a rope. Fuck you, fuck you, you arse, it was a war, it was James’s life at stake, over and over until he starts to believe it, and he’ll say it as long as it takes for Remus to believe it, too, but Remus stops him.  
  
I spent all my life, Remus sighs, trying to be your friend. And in the end I stood outside, and James asked you to be his Secret-Keeper. I can’t hate James for his mistakes.  
  
He doesn’t say the next part: but I can hate you. He doesn’t need to.  
  
Twelve years in Azkaban, Sirius says, because that’s all he has left, that’s the only thing he can throw at Remus anymore, the trump card which feels so much like giving in, admitting what Peter did to him. I paid for my mistakes.  
  
And he leaves the end part out, too, doesn’t say it until he’s in alone in the foyer of Grimmauld Place (from one prison to another, it’s the way it will have to be for a while). And I love you.  
  
Loved? Remus would say, peering up from a book in the library, under the tree by the Lake, in the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack, across the table in the Great Hall, inside James’s cottage, beside Harry’s crib.  
  
Love.  
  
*  
  
Peter, there’s a spy.  
  
I know. Dumbledore told me.  
  
Dumbledore talks to you?  
  
Don’t sound so surprised, Pad. I did well on that last assignment.  
  
I just…didn’t think he ever noticed you.  
  
That tends to happen. So there’s a spy. What are we going to do about it? Who do you think it is?  
  
I don’t know who it could be. Maybe a Bones?  
  
No, they’d never. And we can keep track of what most people are doing. Except Remus, of course, he’s always with the werewolves. Undercover and all that.  
  
Peter…  
  
I don’t think it’s Remus. He’s our friend. He would never. But we do know where everyone usually is, except for him.  
  
He can’t help that.  
  
I know he can’t.  
  
Maybe we could get Voldemort to ‘fess up.  
  
Sirius, this isn’t a laughing matter.  
  
Oh, I know. But you suggesting Remus—it’s uncomfortable.  
  
I’m not suggesting Remus. I don’t think it’s him. Unless you do?  
  
I don’t like that we’re pointing fingers now, Peter.  
  
It’s a war. That’s what happens.  
  
Remus wouldn’t.  
  
I know he wouldn’t. Remus is our friend.  
  
Yes. Remus is my…  
  
True love?  
  
Peter. Fuck you. He’s not.  
  
There’s still a spy. It could be anyone. Could be you, Pad.  
  
Could be  _you_.  
  
*  
  
Sirius remains in the corner of the room for most of the first meeting of the Order, unsure of what he can contribute without leaving the house. While Dumbledore discusses assignments and Mundungus duly protests about every last thing he has to do, he reads a letter from Harry. The slow burn of frustration and anger is palpable. Nobody’s telling me anything, I feel so useless, what’s going on.  
  
I know the feeling, he thinks grimly, and avoids Remus’s gaze.  
  
When the meeting is over, Molly fusses over the state of his pantry and begins to whip up a stew.  
  
You’ll be so lonely here, she says affectionately. And after all that time in Azkaban—we can stay with you, you know. It’ll be safer for us, and good for you.  
  
Mum, you’re smothering, one of the twins says, wrapping his arms around her.  
  
You’re welcome to stay here, Sirius says, although he’s not sure why he’s agreeing to live with a woman he’s certain will drive him mad. And congratulations, Fred—George? I think that’s the first display of affection this house has ever seen.  
  
He leaves them in the kitchen, bewildered, and ends up in the tapestry room, which still smells faintly of cigarettes. He supposes it’s impossible to erase. Remus finds him there soon afterwards, stands uncertainly in the doorway.  
  
You want to talk? asks Sirius. That’s a surprise.  
  
Shut up, says Remus. Shut up. He sits down beside him. Fucking hell, I just wanted to meet people who would be nice to me when I started at Hogwarts.  
  
Shit luck there, Sirius replies. You got an arse of a best friend instead. And a traitor. Well, you got James. He was all right.  
  
I never had him, mutters Remus. He was yours, always.  
  
Sirius wants to protest, but it’s the truth, after all.  
  
About what you said, Remus continues, about it being a war. You’re right. We all went a little mad. Peter—he was clever about it.  
  
No, Sirius sighs, and he leans into Remus, feeling very old. No, I just believed the worst. I wanted you to fail me.  
  
Because—?  
  
Because. I’m not going to make a fucking stupid declaration of love, that’s not what is happening, Moony. Because I was a shitty fucking child. We were all children. I still feel like one, sometimes.  
  
It’s all right, says Remus, putting an arm around him. You believed the worst for a few months. I believed it for twelve years.  
  
We’ll do better this time, Sirius says. We have to. For Harry’s sake.  
  
For Harry’s sake, Remus agrees, pressing his mouth into Sirius’s hair, and the awkwardness of it, the timing, the feeling, hurts so terribly he can hardly stand it.  
  
It’s all right, Sirius echoes, but then again, he thinks—it was never all right.


End file.
